


Curse, Prophecy, and Love to conquer all.

by Lakritzwolf



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Ancient Greece AU, Fili and Kili are cousins not brothers, Human AU, M/M, the minotaur legend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-29 06:50:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20792429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lakritzwolf/pseuds/Lakritzwolf
Summary: The legend of the Minotaur, re-imagined as a FiKi AU. For Linane, who is the best and deserves all the good things.I hope you like it!





	Curse, Prophecy, and Love to conquer all.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Linane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linane/gifts).

> I know that some things about the Minotaur legend don't make sense, but it's the ancient Greeks' fault, not mine.

“Many score years ago, the king of Crete, Minos his name, claimed that his right to rule was given to him by the gods themselves, and as proof asked Poseidon to send him a bull, promising the god that he would sacrifice the bull to Poseidon in return. Poseidon agreed and sent Minos a white bull, to prove his divine right to the throne, but Minos betrayed the god and kept the bull to himself.”

Kili watched the old seer, clad in grey robes and with a mighty long and grey beard, in wide-eyed fascination. The flames of the braziers flickered in the breeze, making shadows dance across the walls and the seer’s face.

“In his anger, Poseidon cursed Minos and his blood. He made the queen of Crete lust after the bull in carnal desire, and when her child was born, it was a creature half bull, half man. As the creature grew, he turned towards eating naught but human flesh, and so King Minos built him a large and inescapable labyrinth to keep him there, and fed him the flesh of human sacrifice.”

“Why didn’t he kill him?” Kili suddenly asked.

“The Minotaur?” The old man asked back, calming his mother with a gentle smile. “Why, he was Poseidon’s punishment. Minos did not dare to enrage the god any further.”

Kili frowned, but accepted that explanation.

“And so, the minotaur lived in that cold and dark place for many years,” the seer went on, “a creature of white skin and white fur, haunting the darkness of the black stone maze, a death trap for anyone who dares to enter. Ever since the death of Minos many have tried to slay the beast, and none have returned.”

“Why didn’t they stop feeding him, then?” Kili asked with a deep frown.

“Again, no one would want to risk Poseidon’s wrath,” the seer explained.

“And you do not question the gods, Kili,” Dis said sternly to her son. “Nor should you interrupt your elders at every turn and angle.”

“Apologies, mother,” Kili said meekly, and fell silent again.

“Since his fate was by his own doing, Minos could to nothing else but feed his own people to the beast, a monster of his own blood. Yet then, his son was killed by the Athenians, his only human son and heir. And he went to war against this city and its people, who lost the war and had to bow their heads to the king of Crete. And in his anger, Minos condemned the Athenians to feed the Minotaur, and ever since, every nine years, seven youths and seven virgins are sent to Crete to pay retribution for a king’s son’s life.”

“Someone should kill the Minotaur,” Kili said after a moment of silence.

“Prophecies say that no man’s hand wielding a blade can earn the glory of the monster’s death,” the seer said with a small, mild smile. “Yet prophecies never reveal the whole truth, nor will they tell you what the right or the wrong thing is to do, young prince of Athens. Maybe someone will kill the beast one day, in a way we cannot think of yet.”

“I will kill the Minotaur,” Kili said then, arms crossed, his childish voice full of determination.

“Do not wake the wrath of the gods!” his mother snapped at him.

“Calm yourself,” the seer said gently before Dis could berate her young son any further. “I strongly doubt the gods will take offence at a child’s dreams of a brighter future.”

Since night had fallen Dis sent her son to bed, but before he left the halls for his chambers and his bed, Kili stopped as he passed the old seer, sitting cross-legged on a pillow.

“Gandalf,” he said hesitantly, and the old man looked at him kindly. “Gandalf, will someone kill the beast one day?”

“Maybe,” Gandalf replied. “Prophecies are fickle things at best. And sometimes we only understand them after they have come to pass. Rest now, young prince. You are but ten years of age, and your dreams of blood and glory will have to wait a few seasons yet.”

“But... Gandalf?”

“Yes, my prince?”

“Why do we still send our people there to die? King Minos has been dead for so long!”

“The people of Athens went to the oracle of Delphi when King Minos made his demands,” the old man explained. “And all they got as an answer was that they do as Minos says lest the gods bring plague and death upon this city.”

“And Athens pays for Minos’ crimes,” Kili said darkly, looking and sounding strangely mature for his age.

“So it would seem,” Gandalf replied. “Yet there may be plans at work we are not able to understand.”

“To bed, Kili,” Dis said sternly, and hanging his head Kili left the hall with his hands curled into fists.

Gandalf remained silent, staring into the flames of the brazier before him, and Dis left him there as she retired herself. His lips were moving in silence a few times, but what he might see in the flames, or might answer to the questions in his mind, no one knew.

* * *

The cool morning breeze was playing with the gauze curtains when Dis and Thorin, in attendance of their entourage, entered their hall again shortly after sunrise. They found Gandalf still there on his pillow, staring into the ashes of the long-dead fire.

“The gods gave me a vision last night,” he said and finally looked up at Thorin, and at his aged advisor Balin. “One that I cannot quite make sense of, yet having had this vision here, King of Athens, can only mean it concerns you and your house.”

The seer looked around and back at Thorin, who dismissed everyone but his sister, his advisor and his guard, with a flick of his hand.

“Let us hear this vision then,” Balin said slowly as Thorin crossed his arms. “And pray to Zeus it is a blessing and not a curse.”

“Very well then.” Gandalf nodded. “Yet blessing or curse might not be obvious to us, not until it has come to pass.” Then he closed his eyes, and raised his voice.

“To north and west across the waters,  
At the foot of the mountain of fire,  
Into the house of the eighth born half a score and two years since,  
From lowliest womb yet sired from the noblest loins,  
Crowned in gold he is yet bent by labour,  
Knows not his blood although he bears the sacred mark.”

There was a moment of silence in the hall after the seer had finished speaking.

“North and west across the waters,” Thorin said thoughtfully and looked at his advisor. “It might be the land of the Romans this speaks about.”

“And the fire mountain,” Balin said with a slow nod, “the fire mountain may well be the Vesuvius.”

“But what would the fire mountain close to Rome concern us?” Thorin asked. “And who is it this speaks of?”

Gandalf shook his head. “I do not have the knowledge to decipher this, although I can agree about Vesuvius. The eighth house leaves me puzzled, however.”

“But someone was conceived twelve years ago there who holds enough meaning to this family for the gods to send a vision,” Balin said slowly, and suddenly, his eyes grew wide. “Dwalin, brother,” he said and turned to the head of the guards. “When was it that we took the ship to Naples for trading?”

“I scarce remember the journey,” Dwalin growled. “I was not made a dolphin to ride the waves.”

“Yet once on land, you quickly found your appetite again for more than food and wine,” Balin said with a wink.

“And you think I sired a boy-child on a whore, who would hold meaning to us?” The grizzled old warrior crossed his arms.

“No,” Dis said hesitantly, her voice trembling. “Did Gandalf not speak of a sacred mark?” She paused, looked at every face. “If he bears the sacred mark of Durin, then someone of royal blood must have sired him.”

“I was not there,” Thorin replied, “and I have never lain with a whore either.”

“No,” Dis whispered, her eyes filling with tears. “But our brother was.”

A stricken silence filled the room.

Unable to sire children, Thorin had abdicated his claim to the throne in favour of his younger brother, who had been killed in battle many years ago. Now the only child of Durin’s blood with claim to Athen’s throne was Kili, the son of Dis, daughter of the last king of Athens and now mother of the royal heir. Thorin would only hold the throne until Kili would come of age.

“Did Frerin not moon over that gold-haired whore for almost a year?” Balin asked, and looked at Dis in question.

“Yes, and he spoke of buying her, to set her free.” Dis folded her hands in her lap to stop herself from digging her nails into her skin. “Yet his young life was wasted in battle before he could return.”

Thorin exhaled a long breath. “So it seems that Frerin sired a son all those years ago.”

“A son of Durin’s blood, bearing Durin’s mark,” Balin said with a nod. “Yet even if he is Frerin’s, he does hold no claim on the throne, born of a slave as he was.”

“Of course not,” Thorin said, his eyebrows drawing together. “Yet if he bears our mark, he shall not live as a slave! No son of Durin shall ever grovel to a master!”

“Then what do you suggest, my king?” Balin asked.

“Set sail for Naples as soon as the tide allows,” Thorin gave back. “Find him, and bring him home.”

“And how should we find a slave amongst other slaves?” Dwalin asked slowly. “Even if he is as golden-haired as his mother?”

“There is one thing we have not yet explained,” Gandalf spoke up. “The house of the eighth. It might yet become clear once you have reached Roman shores, and the shadow of Vesuvius.”

Thorin nodded and told Balin to prepare everything after their morning meal. And with the evening tide, a ship set sail from Athens, heading north and west, towards Naples and the shadow of Vesuvius.

* * *

Dressed as a wealthy trader, Balin stepped onto Roman shores in attendance of his brother acting as a guard, and a few other members of the household. The harbour in Naples was busy and teeming with vermin, both of human and non-human kind, and they had to walk quite aways until they found lodging that suited them.

During their evening meal Balin made casual, cautious enquiries, asking about exotic, beautiful slaves he was to acquire for his employer. They were referred to the slave traders at the other end of the harbour, who carried wares for the more discerning customer.

And yet, there was the clue they needed right before their eyes, and they couldn’t make sense of it. What was the house of the eighth?

Since only Balin and Dwalin knew of their true purpose here, and the others in attendance only believed they were here to trade for silk, slaves, and wine. Their scribe Ori heard the question for the first time as he accidentally walked in on Balin and Dwalin conversing in low voices in the garden behind the tavern.

He dropped the scroll he was reading with a small yelp. “Apologies, I did not see or hear you here!”

“He is a bright one,” Dwalin said gruffly as he mustered the nervous scribe. “I have never seen him without a book or scroll.”

“Hmm.” Balin stroked his beard. “Can you keep a secret, boy?”

“Yes,” was the simple answer after Ori had gathered up his scroll.

Balin then proceeded to explain the prophecy, the real reason why they were here, and that they were now stuck, unable to find who they were looking for.

“The house of the eighth?” Ori asked. “Well, I would start asking for someone called Octavius, as that is the Latin word for eighth.”

Balin and Dwalin exchanged a baffled look, and Dwalin gently patted the scribe between the shoulders, making him stumble and lose his scroll again. He bent down to retrieve it, as did the scribe, and their heads made an unpleasant connection with a dull thud that threw the scrawny, nervous scribe right onto his backside. He accepted Dwalin’s hand to help him up, but then excused himself hastily.

“The boy forgot the scroll,” Dwalin said, and picked it up.

“Hand it back, then,” Balin said with a wink. “But tread gently and talk softly, or you might scare him.”

Dwalin harrumphed, but took the scroll and left the garden. Balin looked up to the stars for a moment, and with a nod and a firm roll of his shoulders, followed his brother and the scribe inside.

* * *

A man called Octavius owned a large vineyard close to the base of Vesuvius, and that was where Balin and the other members of Thorin’s household now headed with the first morning light.

Once they had found the Dominus of the house, Balin didn’t waste any time with courtesies or skirting around the issue, and straight up told him that he was after golden-haired slaves, and that he had heard talk about Octavius possessing two, a woman and a boy.

“A boy, yes,” Octavius replied. “The mother is dead, however. Died giving birth. A shame. I would have liked to breed more golden-haired slaves.” He gave Balin a pointed look. “They fetch handsome sums.”

And since Balin had strict instructions to draw as little attention as possible to the true reason of their quest, he simply told Octavius that the price would not be an issue. So Octavius called for a slave girl to fetch the boy from the fields. At twelve, he was on the threshold between boy and man, and yet, while he was shapely muscled, he was smaller than the prince of Athens, despite being two years older. Slaves were in general not very well nourished, at least if they had a master who didn’t care much about their well-being.

“He is the spitting image of his father,” Dwalin whispered into his brother’s ear, fighting for his composure as much as Balin did, who could only nod.

Yet Balin still had to make sure, so he walked up to the boy, took his left arm, and turned his wrist upward. And there it was, the sacred mark of Durin, leaving not a trace of doubt about his parentage anymore.

The boy looked at his master in deep distrust and something close to fear, and looked at the men who would rescue him in even greater fear, not knowing that his hardships were about to end. Balin paid a sum for him that made Octavius all but drool at the sight of the bag filled with coins, and not wasting any more time, Balin and the others left the house of Octavius again well before sunset, accompanied by a scared, young slave, who yet tried to keep his back straight.

“Relax, boy,” Dwalin said to him as they sat together on the back of the cart. “No harm will come to you.”

“So you will not take me before you sell me?” the boy asked him, crossing his arms.

Dwalin forced his eyes away from the brand on the boy’s right arm and shook his head. “Take you?”

“I am neither deaf nor stupid,” the boy replied. “You were looking for golden-haired slaves, but if you will not take me, it means I will not go into a brothel, but warm the bed of a rich Dominus, right? It could be worse.”

Dwalin stared at the boy with his mouth hanging open, and with no idea what to say.

“Just wait until we have boarded our ship, my boy,” Balin joined the discussion. “Until then, rest your heart. No one will touch you against your will, ever again.”

The boy remained distrustful, but nodded.

“What name do you go by?” Dwalin asked then.

“Gaius.”

Dwalin looked over his shoulder at his brother, who raised his eyebrows. “And is that what your mother named you?”

The boy gritted his teeth.

“Look, boy, I know you do not believe it yet,” Dwalin said slowly, “but your days as a slave are over. I cannot force you to share your secrets with me.”

“But we certainly would appreciate it,” Balin said brightly, “if you can find the trust in us.”

For a long time, the boy was silent and stared at his feet.

“Your mother was not from Roman lands, was she?” Dwalin asked then.

“No.” The boy shook his head. “She was from the far, far north.”

“The lands east of the Rhine?”

“Even further. Beyond even where the Rhine flows into the northern sea. She told me that in her home, I would have had a name of honour, would have been the son of a...” He snapped his mouth shut.

Both Dwalin and Balin let the boy keep his secret. They rode in silence until they had passed the gates of Naples again.

“We will have to pretend you are our slave,” Dwalin said then. “Only until the moment we board the ship to Athens.”

“Athens?” The boy’s eyes widened.

“I will and can say no more,” Dwalin replied. “Act like a good slave boy and do not make me yell at you.”

After staring at him out of narrowed eyes, the boy inclined his head. “Yes, Dominus,” he said, but there was a trace of defiance in his voice, and a faint glow of a fire behind his eyes, and both made Dwalin and Balin smile at him.

* * *

You could have knocked the boy out with a feather after Balin had explained to him why exactly he had been worth such a sum, and what the mark on his arm truly meant. That he was now truly free, that his days of labour were over, that he would grow up in the house of a king now, bastard child or not. He was not naive enough to believe he would ever hold an important position of power, but he was determined to take the chance at a better life and make a place for himself, a place of honour. A warrior in the house of Durin, maybe.

“My mother gave me two sticks and showed me how her brothers taught her how to fight,” he said, staring across the railing. Like this, he looked far older than his years. “I am not a warrior,” he went on after a moment and turned around to look at Dwalin again, the fire in his eyes burning brighter now. “But I will be. I will honour my blood, and the blood of jarls, great chieftains of the north. My mother gave me a name of her people...” Then he hesitated. “Will I have to take a name of your... our people now?”

“Should you so choose,” Balin replied mildly. “Yet I know for a fact that your father loved your mother with passion, and wished for nothing more than to free her, so she could return to her people.”

“And why didn’t he come?” The boy crossed his arms again.

“Because the gods of war took him from the battlefield only a year later,” Balin said, shaking his head in sorrow. “And I am sure that had he known about you, he would have forsaken the war and returned to Roman shores instead to free the both of you.”

The golden-haired, blue-eyed boy looked at Balin now, and slowly dropped his arms. There was a pride in him that was in his blood, and that a life in Roman shackles had not been able to break. And now, allowed to run free, it promised a great man and warrior.

“Carry your mother’s people’s name in pride,” Dwalin said gravely. “Your father would have liked it so.”

The boy took a deep breath and nodded. “Fili,” he said. “My mother named me Fili.”

* * *

Fili stepped ashore with large, wondrous eyes, staring at the white marble palace overlooking the harbour and the bright blue sea, clearly not believing his luck. There was a hint of trepidation in that look too, however, as if he was expecting it all to be a cruel jest, or maybe a dream from which he would awake, to face another day of back-breaking labour in the fields.

Dis herself welcomed him at the bottom of the stairs to the palace entrance before her brother did, clasping his hands while blinking her tears away. Frerin had been as dark of hair and eyes as his siblings, but despite his golden hair and sapphire eyes, Fili resembled him in an almost uncanny way.

And while Thorin looked at him, face stern and calm, as he always did, there was a warmth in his eyes, and a hint of a smile appeared as the former slave bowed deeply as Balin introduced him.

“Welcome to my house, Fili, son of Frerin,” Thorin said gravely. “Durin’s blood marks you, and Durin’s blood shall bring you honour. You will never again bow your head to a master.”

“My King.” Fili straightened up, and the pride and determination in his gaze made Thorin’s smile widen slightly.

“Although your mother was a slave, we are still family,” Thorin went on, and made an inviting gesture towards the private quarters of the palace. “You are my brother-son, and I am as much your uncle as I am of the young prince who shall have the throne one day. If you so wish, you can call me such, in familiar and unofficial settings.”

“I am honoured...” Fili hesitated for a moment. “Uncle.”

Thorin nodded again. “And since no one here cares much for Latin, you shall immediately start your lessons in Greek. I shall have the best teacher sent to you.”

“My gratitude... Uncle.”

Thorin smiled, but followed his sister’s eyes as they came to rest on Fili’s right arm.

“We shall first have to do something about that brand,” she said with a deep frown.

“We shall,” Thorin replied. “We shall consult the medicus about what can be done.”

They had by now reached the quarters of the royal family and their servants, and now Fili stood in the great hall, where only days ago the seer had had the vision that had brought him here. Braziers were warming the cool morning air, the gauze curtains were stirring softly in the breeze, and outside, the song of the sea and the gulls. Thorin called for servants to see Fili to a bath and new clothes, and once he was back in Thorin’s hall, only his shorn slave’s hair betrayed his lowly birth. That, and the brand on his arm. Many eyes came to rest on it.

Fili’s eyes rested on it too, and after a moment, he looked up at Thorin again. “Uncle... can I trouble you for a knife?”

Thorin raised one eyebrow, yet pulled the gold-hilted dagger from the sheath at his belt. Fili took it with a nod, hefted it a few times, and then swiftly cut into his right arm. The brand was, mercifully, not large, a bull’s head in a circle, and gritting his teeth, Fili cut the slab of skin from his arm like you would a bruised patch on a peach.

The hall watched in silence, the only sound the grunt of pain coming from the former slave, and the small gasp of horror from the young prince. Fili then threw the slab of skin into the nearest brazier so it would burn, and stared at his king with blood dripping down his arm. Thorin inclined his head in admiration and called for a medicus, and once Fili’s arm was properly bandaged, they all settled down to eat.

“Kili, Prince of Athens,” Dis said as they sat. “My son, and future king.”

Fili inclined his head. “My prince.”

“Kili, this is Fili, son of Frerin,” Dis addressed her son. “He may be of low birth, but he is of Durin’s blood, so treat him appropriately.”

“Yes, mother,” Kili said, his eyes glued to Fili. “Your name is Fili?”

“My mother named me so,” Fili said, pride strong in his voice. “It is a name of her people.”

“Fili,” Kili said again, slowly. “Fili, and Kili.” And then he smiled brightly, with shining eyes. “Almost as if we were made for each other!”

“Kili,” Dis scolded gently, with an amused smile and a shake of her head.

And everyone else around them chuckled, making Kili’s cheeks burn.

The only one not to laugh, however, was Fili. He looked at the prince, blue eyes alight, but without shame or anger. What it was that was behind those eyes, no one could guess.

* * *

Since Dwalin wanted to honour Fili’s blood as well as Durin’s, he had a pair of practise swords made, but no one knew how to teach him, so he would have to train himself. The Athenians’ favourite weapons were spear and shield, but Fili worked with stubborn determination, first on straw puppets and wooden posts, later in sparring matches.

As he had reached his fourteenth summer, Thorin gifted him with a pair of finely crafted blades, the hilts inlaid with silver. And while he had also trained in the use of spear and shield in the way of the Athenians, the twin blades remained his favourite weapons. And to honour his brother’s legacy, Thorin supported him.

During those two years Kili had spent many hours watching Fili train, and they had shared a table during all that time. And after Fili had lost his slight discomfort about being around royalty, the two had grown quite close. Sometimes they would train together, they also often rode together, and discovered that there was one thing Kili had over him: archery. Kili was skilled with the bow, even from horseback, and he clearly enjoyed being better, as Fili constantly threw him onto his backside whenever they sparred.

Yet despite being the prince, other young men and boys mocked Kili for being only master of a coward’s weapon. Fili frowned whenever he caught that word, and one day confronted them in the training yard, after a sparring match. Kili hadn’t done too badly but he hadn’t excelled either, but Fili now stood before him and glared at the other seven, when one of them had made a scoffed remark about it being shameful for a king not to be master at all weapons.

“A king has his general and warriors to fight for him,” Fili snarled. “There is no shame for a leader in staying alive to take care of his people, and to prevent civil unrest in a war for the throne.” Then he walked over to the table with refreshments, and took an apple. “Besides,” he said and tossed the apple in the air before catching it again, “you should be shamed by his skills.”

With that, he put the apple onto his head and looked at Kili, arms crossed.

Their eyes met, and Fili smiled with a nod. Kili took his bow, nocked an arrow, and took a deep breath. Fili nodded again.

And in a burst of white apple flesh and juice, the apple exploded, cloven in two by Kili’s arrow.

The mocking stopped after that, and that night during the evening meal, Kili thanked Fili for defending his honour.

“I could not have done otherwise,” Fili replied simply.

“Yet it was a brave thing to do,” Kili replied after a moment’s hesitation.

“Why?” Fili took a sip of wine. “I knew you would not miss.”

Their eyes met, and they exchanged a smile, yet no more words, comfortable in companionable silence.

* * *

From the day of Fili’s display of trust and loyalty, he and the prince became as close as brothers, thick as thieves. Wherever Kili went, for whatever business, princely or private, Fili would always be at his side.

People would joke sometimes that they acted as if they were to be married, which made Kili blush and Fili become absolutely stone-faced. They never talked about it between themselves, yet stayed true to each other, with Fili always at his prince’s side.

At fourteen and sixteen, Kili had caught up with Fili in terms of height, and it was clear that he would surpass him. Not very well nourished from an early age, Fili already grew slower, leaving boyhood behind for good, but Kili would yet have a few years in which to reach his height.

Fili didn’t seem to care, and what he lacked in reach, he made up for in speed and strength and determination. Despite being one of the shortest of the men training in the yard, he was almost always the winner of any sparring match. And Kili was always there, cheering him on, and celebrating his victories.

Autumn was on its way, and Fili and Kili went hunting boar in the hills. On horseback, equipped with boar spears and bows, they left the city with the first light of morning, and reached the hills well before noon. And not long after, they found their tracks. The hunt was on.

The boar was a mighty creature, too old and wiry to be good eating, but it would be a fine proof of Kili’s strength and merit. So he nocked an arrow, and aimed for the eye.

Yet the arrow turned out to be faulty. It cracked the moment it left the bow string, and snapped cleanly in half on impact, doing nothing much but enraging the boar. Kili hastily took another arrow but the beast was already charging, but before he could drop the bow and run, the bushes parted to his right, and Fili shot forward in a blur, spear brandished high. The boar swung its head around and charged, and Fili met him, spear held tight, and eyes grim as he rammed it into the boar’s shoulder, close to the heart.

And with his strength and sheer force of will, he held his ground as the boar pressed forward, driving the spear deeper in. And by the mercy of the gods, the spearhead reached its heart before the gnashing, vicious fangs could reach Fili’s arm.

Fili pulled his spear out and for good measure, pierced the boar’s throat as well, but the beast was already in its death throes, and moments later, went still.

“You saved my life,” Kili whispered hoarsely, staring at the boar.

“How could I not?” Fili replied. “Should I have watched the beast gut you and tear the prince of Athens apart?”

Kili licked his lips, an unhappy frown on his face. “And is it only the prince of Athens you care about?”

Fili froze, and then tilted his head. He took a few steps towards Kili who gripped his bow so tightly his knuckles were white.

“And who else should I care about?” Fili asked, voice low. “A long time ago I realised that this is why I am here. This is the fate the gods chose for me. You were right, back then, even if no one else understood. We belong together. I am here to keep you safe. Always.”

“The prince’s personal guard.” Kili’s voice was flat.

“What makes you unhappy about this thought?” Fili stepped closer yet, the hint of a challenge in his voice, the trace of a smile around his lips.

Now Kili rolled his shoulders and straightened his back. “Am I only a prince to you? Or can I not also be... just Kili?”

The smile on Fili’s face widened. “Is that why I caught you stare so often, when I shed my tunic after sparring matches? Do not think I haven’t noticed.”

Kili blushed. “Is it my fault you are built like a god?”

Now Fili laughed, but it was a soft laugh, without mocking. “Is that so?”

Kili could only nod.

“And if I told you,” Fili said, emboldened, and stepped closer, “that I have been entranced by your beauty for a very long time?”

They were so close now that their bodies almost touched. Their eyes met, captured in each other’s gaze.

“You are the marked prince,” Fili whispered, “and I am but the son of a slave.”

“I do not care,” Kili replied. “I do not care about your blood. I care about you.”

“And your position?”

“Send it to Hades,” Kili muttered. “If I cannot have you, I do not want the throne.”

“Bold words, my prince,” Fili breathed. “I would not be the reason for a civil war.”

“Then be my guard, keeping safe the prince,” Kili whispered back. “But here, now, when it is only us, let us just be.”

“Be what?”

“Be us.” Kili lifted one hand, and ran his fingers through Fili’s golden hair. “Fili and Kili.”

Fili smiled, but did not reply. Instead, he closed the distance between them, and as their lips touched, nothing mattered anymore. They were no longer prince and guard, but only Fili and Kili.

They came back late that day, dragging the boar behind, tied with ropes to their saddles. They bathed, separately, as is proper, but Dís did not fail to spot the light in their eyes that evening whenever they looked at each other.

* * *

If the two young men had been close before, now they were inseparable. It was soon quite clear to everyone around them that they were bound by far more than mere friendship and loyalty, but as of yet, no one could see any harm in it. They were young and hot-headed and hot-blooded, and once they reached maturity, their hearts and minds would settle again.

Fili and Kili refused to believe that would ever happen, that they would lose each other’s hearts ever again. They now not only shared a table but also a bed every night, discovering all the skills of love with each other, every step new to both of them.

Yet their luck and happiness lasted only two summers more. For on the eve of Spring Equinox the year that saw the beginning of Fili’s eighteenth and Kili’s sixteenth summer, the lots were drawn, as it was the ninth year, the year the Minotaur would demand new sacrifices. And in cruel mockery of the young lovers’ fate, the lot fell onto the house of Durin.

Thorin raged in his chamber, and there wasn’t a single bit of pottery that wasn’t shattered when he emerged again, hair torn apart, his clothing askew. He travelled to Delphi to speak to the Oracle, to demand an answer, to find a way to free Durin’s house. Surely, the one blessed by the blood of the ancient hero could not end in such a lowly fate, to be slain and devoured by a monster?

Yet even after sacrificing seven rams and a bull, Thorin got no other answer than that the firstborn of his house would have to set sail for Crete at Spring Equinox.

Bringing the line of Durin to an end.

The hall was covered in grim silence the night Thorin returned, food untouched on many a plate. No one wanted to believe it, yet the gods had not given a word of mercy. The prince of Athens would die, and the line to the throne with him.

Until Fili suddenly stood up, and turned towards the throne.

“Uncle.”

Thorin looked up.

“Uncle, have you not said many times that I am as much a son of Durin as anyone else ever born with the sacred mark?”

“I did,” Thorin said heavily. “Yet I fail to see why it matters.”

“I am older by two years,” Fili said again. “Born of a slave, but from the line of Durin, by your brother. I am the first born in this generation. I shall go to Crete, and the line to the throne shall not end vacant and cause a mindless bloodshed.”

“Fili!” Kili jumped up, eyes wide in terror. “You cannot!”

“I can.” Fili gave him a sad smile. “I must. This is my fate.”

“You said your fate was to be with me!” Kili curled his hands into fists. “That we belong together!”

“I did,” Fili replied, but looked back at his king. “I am here to keep you safe. And I will. I shall keep you safe, and your blood, and your place. There will be no bloody war for the throne if you hold it.”

“Not for the price of your life!”

“You will be king,” Fili said to him, voice firm, but not unkind. “If you die, thousands will follow.”

“And if you die, my heart will die too!” Kili’s eyes were glistening.

Fili reached out and gently cupped Kili’s cheek in one hand. “You cannot rule a kingdom with your heart, my love.”

“I cannot rule without one either.” Kili swallowed hard.

Fili smiled softly and sadly. “You have my heart, for what it is worth. It will have to do.”

“It will not.” Kili shook his head. “It will never be.”

“There is no other way,” Fili replied. “We cannot sacrifice our people, of this generation and how many ever to come, for a few years of our happiness. It must be done, and I am the one to do it.”

Kili stepped back and swatted Fili’s hand away, and with a growl, he spun around and stormed out of the hall.

“Fili,” Thorin said gravely and got up. “It is a heavy thing you offer.”

“But you know it is nothing but the truth. I am firstborn, yet my death will not matter to the throne.”

“It will matter to the king,” Thorin replied in a heavy voice.

“It will,” Fili said, and looked over his shoulder, to where Kili had vanished. “But it is his life or mine, and I shall always make the same choice. It will always be mine. All I ask is that you let me take my blades with me, as I will not be devoured like a dove, and I shall not rest without my weapons. Because no matter what happens to my bones, that labyrinth will be my tomb.”

“You honour the house of Durin,” Thorin said, resting both hands on Fili’s shoulders. “And you honour Durin’s blood. I wish to all the gods it were otherwise, that we had a choice. Yet I fail to see another way.”

“There is none, Uncle.” Fili smiled, a slight, somewhat sad smile. “This is my fate, the way the gods have set me to, maybe even before you came for me. I came here to keep the prince of Athens safe. And I shall do so until my last breath.”

Thorin took a heavy breath and nodded. “You shall be honoured throughout the ages, Fili, son of Frerin,” he said gravely. “Your sacrifice shall never be forgotten.”

Knowing that the throne would be safe, but only at the cost of Fili’s life, did not ease the minds in the hall that night, not much. No fear of bloody war, but aching hearts for young lovers to be torn apart now weighed heavy on everyone’s minds.

Kili was absent from their bed that night, and nowhere to be found during the day. And when he appeared again that evening, long after most of the people had gone to sleep, he was pale, dirty, and covered in scratches, as if he had spent all that time hiding in the myrtle and juniper bushes in the hills.

Fili wordlessly closed his arms around him, and Kili fell against him and fell completely apart. Fili had tears in his eyes as well, but he led Kili to the bathing chambers, gently cleaned his skin with the softest sponge, and untangled his hair, freeing it of pine needles and burrs as gently as he could. All that happened in silence, and after he had led Kili back to their bed, he laid down with him and made gentle love to Kili all night, with Kili clinging to him in desperation.

Their sweet release brought only a moment’s reprise from the cruelty of the world outside their chamber. But it was all they could get. They spoke no more. There was nothing that could be said.

* * *

Three days later, the ship with seven youths and seven maidens left Athens, and the crowd at the pier was in tears, not a single dry eye was in sight, to yet again mourn the loss of so much strength and beauty.

Kili was absent; he and Fili had made their farewells last night, and he did not wish to see him leave the shores and sail towards his fate. Fili had understood, had kissed the tears from his eyelids, and held him until the first morning light.

Thorin himself had strapped the twin blades to Fili’s back, and even Dwalin, grizzled old warrior that he was, had been wiping his eyes, silently cursing the gods.

They watched the ship leave the harbour, and when the last glimpse of it had vanished behind the horizon, the house of Durin returned to their palace, suddenly so empty and dark without the presence of Frerin’s son, the one of sapphire and gold.

* * *

They honoured Fili with a feast that night, yet Kili touched neither food nor drink, and left the hall as soon as the meal had ended. Thorin could not blame him, neither could anyone else, and they watched their prince’s departure with heavy hearts.

Dís’ tears had hardly run dry since the cruel revelation, and now her eyes flowed over again, watching her son’s silent suffering.

She found him in his chamber later that night where he lay on the bed, face buried in his pillow to hide the tears that shamed him, even if no one had ever said a bad word about them yet.

“My love,” she whispered as she sat down next to him. “I would have taken his place to spare you the pain of a broken heart.” Her fingers threaded into strands of Kili’s dark, silken hair. “Would that I could heal it.”

“It will never heal,” Kili said and turned onto his back. “Yet another cruel jest of the gods, making me lose my heart to shatter it into pieces.”

“A cruel fate,” Dís replied with a sigh. “Would that it could be fought.”

And with that, Kili’s tears suddenly stopped, and he sat upright, looking at his mother with wide eyes. “And what if I fight it?”

“My dear son, you cannot fight the gods, or the fate they have cast for you.” Dís shook her head, all of a sudden worried about her only son’s sanity.  
“I shall not fight the prophecy,” Kili replied, his eyes lighting up, a smile on his face for the first time in days, but it was not a smile of happiness. “Fili has gone in my stead to be fed to the monster, yet no prophecy said I am not allowed to fight the monster.”

“Kili, may the gods have mercy on your soul!” Dís shook her head again. “You cannot fight that huge, white beast. None of those who tried have ever returned! Remember Gandalf, and his prophecies! The beast cannot be slain by a hand wielding a blade!”

Kili stared at her, and suddenly uhe sagged, shoulder slumping as if under a heavy weight. “You are right, mother,” he said meekly. “It really is too late. “

Dís wiped away her tears and kissed her son’s forehead, as if he was still a child in need of comfort. Kili closed his eyes, yet didn’t open them again, and with a heavy sigh, Dís got up and left the chamber, hiding her face in her hands.

Yet as soon as Kili could not hear her footsteps anymore, he opened his eyes again, and gritting his teeth, he left his quarters, hiding in shadows and silence as he crawled along the halls like a hunter after his prey.

Scarred and fierce Dwalin did not need much persuasion to go on a quest to slay a beast, a beast that had been terrorizing his people for decades. His brother refused on account of his age, yet he promised to hold his silence, and told Kili to go to the palace’s tailor Dori to get a ball of bright, red yarn.

And in the dead of the night, Kili boarded a boat accompanied by a few trusted friends, to cross the sea and fight a monster, to reclaim his love.

* * *

Kili and his small group of warriors reached the shore of the cursed island with falling dusk, and after lighting their torches, they followed the path leading towards the labyrinth.

The sight was abysmal. Dark and crumbling masonry and stonework, worn by the passing of time, the few shrubs growing close reduced to leafless skeletons as if no living thing could ever endure the cursed air poisoned by the beast. And there, at the entrance, lay some wilting flower crowns, discarded by the monster’s latest victims before priests still living here had ushered them inside.

They would find their end too, Kili decided grimly. Nothing on this island would be alive once he and his loved ones had boarded their ship, gods and prophecies be damned.

“Let us pray we do not come too late,” Dwalin said, hefting his heavy battle axes.

“Swiftly then,” Kili replied, and checked his quiver. He had been filled with trepidation, nervous enough his hands had been shaking, but now that it was upon him, a strange, cold calm settled in his soul.

Battle was upon them, and Kili was ready.

And they all followed him through the arch of black, crumbling stone that looked nothing but a maw waiting to swallow everyone alive, and stepped into the cursed labyrinth.

Yet before he entered, Kili tied one end of the red string to a shrub close to the entrance, and slipped the ball of yarn into a small bag tied to his belt.

Kili led the way, bow at the ready with an arrow nocked, and he was followed by Bifur and Bofur, with the fierce warriors Dwalin and Gloin guarding their rear. Kili had chosen those four because he had heard them curse their fate the loudest, complain about gods and prophecies, heard them trying to badger Thorin into sending an army to Crete to battle the beast, for as long as he could remember.

Now their time for revenge had come, and they faced the battle with grim determination, and fierce smiles.

They had not walked for long when they heard a roar that made their blood run cold, and it was followed by a scream of utter horror, a woman, by the sound of it. It was cut short very suddenly and very finally, and Bofur closed his eyes.

“May the gods rest her soul,” he muttered.

“Hurry.” Kili was all but running now. “We need to find the beast ere it feasts on any more innocent lives.”

Yet the stone itself seemed to have conspired against them. Again and again they hit dead ends, had to backtrack and retrace their steps, and without the red yarn, they would have been lost forever in the bowels of the labyrinth. In his mind, Kili blessed Balin’s clever thinking, and reminded himself to thank him for his foresight and wisdom.

Twice during that time they heard the beast roar, and twice they could only helplessly listen as some poor soul met a violent, gruesome end. It made their resolve to finally put an end to this only harder.

And then, suddenly, there was a movement heard ahead. A scraping of stone, a growl of a massive beast, hooves dragging on sandy flagstones. And the grunts of a fighting man.

And as Kili and his men rounded the corner they finally laid their eyes on the creature.

White skin and fur, covered in scars, the massive head crowned by horns. The Minotaur did bear the marks of those who had tried to fight him, and even despite lacking half an arm, he was an opponent who seemed all but invincible.

And clutched in the claws of that monster was a man with golden hair. The monster was bleeding from several cuts, but that only seemed to enrage it. Caught by surprise, Fili had lost his swords, and was now helplessly struggling in the creature’s grip.

“Fili!” Kili screamed, and pulled his bowstring.

Growing still, Fili stared at the men who had come to rescue him, only to find their own end.

“Run!” He screamed. “Run!”

“Not without you!” Kili screamed back, and loosed the arrow.

It hit the monster’s shoulder, dangerously close to Fili’s head, but the shock and pain was enough for the grip to loosen, and Fili was able to free himself from the creature’s grasp. Yet he was without weapon and defenceless against the huge beast, and a sweep of the monster’s remaining arm threw him against the wall.

“You, monster!” Kili screamed. The minotaur turned around, a terrifying grin on his face, and in one fluid motion, Kili nocked another arrow, aimed, and loosed it.

The arrow buried itself into the monster’s left eye, and the white creature suddenly stilled. Its face went slack, and after a heartbeat, it slowly crumpled to the ground. A groan, a twitching of legs, and the beast was still.

The monster was slain, and the reign of terror of the Minotaur had finally ended.

Kili now dropped his bow and hurried to Fili’s side, carefully taking him by the shoulders. Fili opened his eyes with a groan, and Kili cradled his cheek in his hand. At the back of his head Fili’s hair was sticky with blood, but he was breathing, he was alive... and the monster was not.

“You came for me,” Fili said, his voice trembling, and rough with pain.

“How could I not?” Kili smiled, tired and relieved as he brushed a few strands of hair from Fili’s face.

“I saved you from a beast once... and now you saved me.” Fili tried to smile. “So now we are even.”

“I do not care about being even,” Kili said, voice trembling, and cradled Fili in his arms. “I only want you back in my arms.”

Their eyes met again, blue and brown, like heaven and earth, opposites and yet two parts of a being, and only together would their world ever be whole.

And as their lips met they forgot the world, their perils, the rough stone beneath them and the cold darkness around them.

It was first when Dwalin came lumbering past with a low growl to retrieve his axe, that the spell between them was broken. Yet they remained for a moment longer, gazing into each other’s eyes.

“Let us get you home,” Bofur said then. “You can see yourself to a bath and to food and rest.” And then he winked. “And be celebrated as hero.”

“It was Kili who slew the beast,” Fili said and tried to get onto his feet, assisted by Kili. “Not me.”

“You deserve rest as much as he does,” Bofur said firmly, with a smile.

“They will do anything but rest as soon as their heads touch the same pillow,” Dwalin grumbled, yet there was softness in his eyes that for once, he wasn’t trying to hide behind gruff words. So instead he turned towards the dead Minotaur again, hefting his axe. Blood splattered on his face and hands as his axe bit into the creature’s neck, and he needed to hew three times before he had cleft the head off of the mighty shoulders.

Yet before they left, and with the help of the red yarn, they gathered all the others who were still lost in the dark maze, and brought nine of the fourteen back into the blessed light of the dawning day. They greeted the light with tears of joy, as none of them had believed they should ever see the sun again.

The boat carried them home to Athens again, with Fili and Kili at the bow, the wind tossing their hair around as they had their arms around each other. They had defied the gods and prophecy, and even if the gods would frown on them now, they were ready to continue to defeat them, if needs be. Together, they could face anything.

Back in Athens, both King Thorin and his sister had been beside themselves with fear upon making the horrifying discovery that their prince, and his boat, were gone. Thorin especially had been torn between fear and anger at the prince’s foolishness, and a hint of pride at his courage. The news that a ship was crossing the harbour had most of the house on their feet within moments, reaching the harbour like peasants, without royal dignity, and out of breath.

To see them return now, with the severed head of the minotaur that Dwalin carried by the horns, made Dís weep in joy and relief, and Thorin fight his own tears, his heart bursting with pride and joy.

There were a lot of tearful reunions, between those who had survived and their families, and more tears from those whose loved ones would never return. Yet even in grief, there was the small comfort that no one would ever set sail into death again.

Servants now saw them all to a bath and clean clothes and wine, and there was a great feast that night, with music and dancers and tables that bent under the loads of food that the good cook Bombur had magicked from his kitchen at short notice. The mood was bright in Durin’s house that night, laughter ringing among the halls for the first time since the dreadful news of the prophecy.

As if called by fate, Gandalf had reached Athens that day, and he, too, was invited to the feast, yet mostly so Thorin could ask about the possible wrath of the gods.

“What about the prophecy, you ask?” Gandalf took a slow sip of wine.

“The one that said the monster could not be slain by a hand wielding a blade.” Thorin crossed his arms.

“Well.” Gandalf looked around. “Was he slain by a blade, then?”

“No,” Dwalin said, and burst out laughing. “Gods, no, he was not! Kili shot him with an arrow!”

“There,” Gandalf said. “Every prophecy has an outcome that we are unable to see before it has come to pass.”

“So we do not have to fear the god’s retribution?” Dis asked, voice trembling.

“The gods and prophecies spoke of a blade,” Gandalf said smugly and took a large and satisfying sip of his wine. “None mentioned an arrow. You are safe.”

“Let us drink again then,” Dwalin said and lifted his cup, “to the honour and courage of our prince and his love!”

Yet the two young men from Durin’s blood were suspiciously absent; they had taken their meal and had vanished from sight without anyone being the wiser, until now. Yet no one went looking for them. They needed this moment.

Fili and Kili had entered their chambers short of breath, from kisses and laughter both. They had survived, they were reunited, and nothing and no one, not even the gods, would ever tear them apart again. They fell into the sheets and pillows of their large and luxurious bed, and gentle kisses quickly became heated, touches increasingly firm and fast. They undressed each other hastily and just short of frantic, in their eagerness of feeling the other closer and closer yet.

Hands roaming heated skin they kissed again, and together, they found sweet release between their joined hands. Yet this time, there was no bitterness and sadness that followed, only warm skin on skin in a warm embrace.

Sleep did not come to them, as they spent their night lost in pleasure, and once too spent to move, they settled in a tight embrace exchanging vows of love and troth.

Three days later, by Thorin’s own hands, Fili was crowned as Prince Consort, to prove to gods and mortals that nothing could come between them ever again.


End file.
